Intriguing
by TheMusicalDetective
Summary: It's a normal day in London when an American woman moves into a flat planning to focus on her studies at London University. However, her neighbors upstairs in 221b were not what she was expecting. Now she finds herself being pulled into a dark new world which could cost her everything. Can she make it out with an A, or even her life, when her odd neighbor finds her intriguing?
1. Chapter 1

I do not own any of the characters of the BBC Sherlock series. The only characters I own are the ones derived from my imagination.

* * *

_**Intriguing**_

_**Chapter One**_

Rhianna Arico climbed out of her cab, dragging her excessively heavy suitcase out with her. Lord, was she tired. That plane ride had been hell, and her back was already feeling the affects of her third-class seat.

"Fare, please," the cabby growled from inside the vehicle. Really, for someone who said 'please' they sounded as though they wanted to kill her.

"Yes, of course," she huffed, handing him a wade of cash. Cab fares were so outrageously high, but she was going to have to deal with it for the time being.

The grizzly haired man laboriously counted the money, making sure she had not cheated him. One can never trust Americans, you know. When he found it all there, however, he gave her a curt nod and drove away, leaving her standing alone on the sidewalk.

Rhianna rolled her eyes. "Mature," she mumbled, pulling her suitcase up to the door and pressing the button. God, she hoped this went well. She had applied for the University of London as a joke, knowing there would be no way she could go there. Later, however, when she received an acceptance letter, all of that changed. She had earned numerous scholarships and her parents allowed her to move to England to pursue her education. Her aunt offered to pay for her lodgings, giving her the chance to choose an inexpensive apartment all to herself. Now as she waited for the door on Baker Street to be opened, she was filled with excitement.

Finally, the portal was opened by an elderly woman who was smiling from ear to ear.

"You must be Miss Arico?" she smiled, looking down at the girl.

"Yes, that would be me. Mrs. Hudson, I presume?"

The woman nodded.

"Come on in then," she instructed, stepping back so that the newcomer could enter. By the time she had the door closed behind her, the landlady began chatting at an alarming rate. "I'm so excited to have you here," she expressed leading Rhianna further on down the hall to her room. The young American's eyes slid up the narrow set of stairs that led up to the second floor, wondering who her neighbors were. She had heard that a couple people shared a flat on the top floor, but she was never told who they were. In the distance, Mrs. Hudson's voice could still be heard prattling on.

"I could never get anybody interested in this room," she continued, unlocking the door of 221c with a key. "It is small, I must say, but it will be just the right size for a college student like you," she enthused, opening the door for Rhianna and holding out the key.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson. I must admit, it is a little overwhelming being in a different country," Rhianna stated, taking the proffered key from her landlady's hand.

"I understand, dear. But you'll fit in just fine, I can tell. Would you like a cup of tea while you put your things away? I had some furniture put in to make you more comfortable."

"Thank you, and yes, that would be wonderful." Right as the kind lady was about to walk away, Rhianna asked, "Oh, and who are my neighbors?" She pointed toward the ceiling, indicating the second floor. Mrs. Hudson tilted her head in that direction and smiled.

"Oh, that's just Sherlock and John. You may not see them much as they're always running about on cases, but I'm sure you'll like them." And with that vague answer, Mrs. Hudson ran into another room to make her new resident tea.

)*(

Rhianna had just finished unpacking the last of her things and taken the final sip of her tea when the clock in the hall struck three. Setting her empty suitcase at the far corner of her room, she stretched and headed for the door. Before exiting her new home, she turned back round to gaze upon it. True, it was a sparse living quarter. The only furniture given her was a simple bed with a plan crème comforter, a light wooden dresser for her clothes, a desk to do her school work at, and a single chair beside it. A fireplace was the centerpiece of the far wall, with a mirror hanging over top of it. The room had the privilege of only one window whose shallow light was the sole energy illuminating its interior. Obviously she was going to have to buy a lamp.

Mrs. Hudson had explained to her how it had been newly aired out and adorned with new carpet (the same color as the bedspread) and fancy damask wallpaper. Though it still had a distinct basement feel to it, the room was more than enough to please its new occupant.

Satisfied, Rhianna continued out of the little hallway leading to her room, locking the door behind her. As her classes started in three days, she had to check in with the college administration to be registered for an ID. Textbooks were also on her list, as were the usual necessities of pen, pencil, paper, whiteout, eraser, etc. Honestly, she was terrified. Sure, she had easily maintained the top of her class in her hometown, but that was in a small county in America. Now she was in London, England, and she had no idea what to expect.

No worries, she thought. One day you will be an established radiologist and all of this will be behind you. Grabbing her black jacket and Beatles purse, she made her way out of the building and into yet another cab destined for the college.

)*(

Mrs. Hudson was cleaning the foyer when the door flew open and two men rowdily barged in. Without looking up, she knew who they were. Sherlock and John always came back in the same noisy fashion. Taking a break from her work, she looked up at them with a smile.

"Hello, boys. How was everything?"

"Perfect, Mrs. Hudson. Simply perfect!" Sherlock mused, greeting her with shining eyes. "He thought he could get away. You should have seen the elaborate plan he was about to instigate before we caught him! It was such fun!"

"And the mother and daughter were returned home safely," John added, glaring at

his friend and secretly scolding him for not mentioning the fact.

"Oh, yes, John. Of course they were. But the investigation was far more interesting than a couple of dull females. Really, I still don't understand why the man kidnapped them in the first place!"

"Maybe it had something to do with the mom being his lost love and the girl his biological daughter he had never met." Sherlock waved this comment away with a quick motion of his hand.

"I still don't see it. Anyway, the case is solved and Lestrade is once again in my debt. Balance has been restored. Now, time to get back to my – " He stopped abruptly and started sniffing the air. John raised an eyebrow and Mrs. Hudson looked on with surprise.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John questioned, walking toward him.

The detective stayed silent for a moment, until he slowly voiced the word, "Vanilla."

"Vanilla?" John echoed, completely confused by his flat mate's enigmatic reference.

"Yes, vanilla. Hand cream, I should think. Mrs. Hudson, has anybody else been here today?"

The confused expression on their landlady's face quickly faded away into one of understanding. "Oh! You mean the new tenant! Lovely girl. I think you boys would like her."

Sherlock's face darkened. "New tenant?" he reiterated. "Why on earth did you lease a new tenant?"

"Well, you know how I was fixing up the downstairs flat? Luckily, somebody gave me an offer. A modest one, I admit, but then again, the rooms themselves are modest as well."

John, curiosity now piqued, turned to her and asked, "Who is she?"

"Her name's Rhianna Arico. She's starting classes at London University this semester. From America, she is. Quite polite."

"America?" John exclaimed, surprised by the nationality.

"Yeah. You can tell by her accent."

"Why isn't she staying at a dorm?" Sherlock demanded, irate. "Surely there are some available."

"The way I was told was that she didn't want anything distracting her from her school work. The poor thing doesn't seem to have much desire for social interactions."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Really? You'd think a young woman would want nothing better than social interaction."

"This one's quite private," she explained, going back to her cleaning. "She went down to the University a little while ago. You could meet her when she gets back."

"No thank you," Sherlock barked, quickly retreating up the stairs before John made him change his answer. The last thing he wanted was a pesky, little college girl getting in his way.

)*(

Rhianna returned a couple hours later with everything she needed. She had even managed to pick up a lamp to help with the poor lighting in her room.

"I guess those years of lawn mowing paid off," she muttered, lugging her new possessions to her room.

Digging the key out of her pocket while simultaneously balancing everything on her hip, she unlocked her door and stumbled down the tiny hallway to her room. Plopping her things down on her bed, she quickly followed suit, letting her body rest on the twin size mattress.

Lord, it had been a long day. The college was HUGE. She had been terrified that she wouldn't be able to find administration. Eventually, she did, and her terrible, god-awful ID picture was taken. The first time she saw it, she had quickly hidden the thing away in her wallet. Urgh, they always jacked up the lighting and made her face look weird.

Then the problem of finding the bookstore arose. Luckily, she had found a sympathetic Uni student (as they called themselves) that had graciously showed her the way. Calc, Bio, Chem, pretty basic classes. She had to finish those up before med school. Knowing that she couldn't go to bed unless all her things were put up, she lifted herself from the mattress.

Her textbooks were sorted on her desk, along with the rest of her school supplies. Now it was time for the lamp! Unboxing her new treasure, she dumped the contents on the bed. A nice, simple lamp. Without a light bulb. Shit . . . . She hadn't thought about that in the hurry she had been in. Maybe her neighbor had one. Well, she had to meet them eventually.

Tentatively, she stalked out of her flat and out into the foyer just in time to almost collide with a man coming from upstairs.

"Oh, God. I'm sorry about that. Didn't see you coming," the man said, stepping back to take a look at her. "You must be the new tenant. Rhianna, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. And you are either John or Sherlock, I presume."

"John Watson," he smiled, offering his hand. "I'm sorry our first meeting was almost a headbutt."

Taking his proffered hand, she shook it, smiling back at him.

"It's alright. I was just coming up to see if you had a light bulb. I bought a new lamp today and remembered I needed one of those for it to work when I got back."

He laughed. "We should have some up there. I was just heading out. It was nice meeting you, though."

"Nice meeting you too. I guess I'd better go get this bulb then," she stated, and was about to head up the stairs when the man stopped her.

"Just to warn you," he started. "Sherlock is not the nicest of people."

She cocked an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"Well, let's just say he doesn't go much for manners, or people for that matter."

Now both of Rhianna's eyebrows rose. "Really? Well, I guess I'll just have to brave the storm. Thanks for the warning," she imparted.

"No problem," he returned before turning and walking out the front door.

"Nice guy," she muttered to herself before going up the stairs. The first thing she was presented with was a closed door. Making the sign of the cross and taking a deep breath, she knocked, hoping to be answered.

For a moment nothing happened. She just stood there, staring at the door. She was about to turn and leave until the wood flew back and a man's face appeared before her. Her first impression was of how handsome it was. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the high, well defined cheekbones, then noticed the beautiful locks of black, curling hair that encased his skull. His lips were full, his skin pale, but the most startling feature of all were his eyes. His light blue, almost gray eyes. They were cold, sharp, as deadly as daggers, and entirely bewitching. How could a man this beautiful loathe society when he could have it grovel at his feet? Then she got her answer.

"Rhianna Arico, the new tenant, I take it?" he curtly remarked, eyeing her suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"A light bulb, actually," she replied, returning the stare. "Sorry to bother you."

"Did you not bring light bulbs with you from America?" he remarked, jabbing her with his words.

"Sorry, I guess that slipped my mind amongst the packing of necessities and the planning out of my living situation. Do you not happen to have any?"

"We have light bulbs."

"No, I mean manners," she spat. His eyebrows rose.

"I'm assuming you're not interested in the light bulb now?"

"No, a light bulb would be nice, but I couldn't resist saying that last bit," she admitted, smiling.

"I see," he mumbled, staring at her. This woman was admittedly interesting, despite her young age. Maybe this could prove to be more fun than mortifying. John had told him to get along with the new neighbor, so why shouldn't he?

"Would you like to come in?" he asked, looking down at her. In reality, the greeting didn't sound friendly or warm in any way. It was just a plain, matter-of-fact question. Though a bit surprised, she took up the offer immediately.

"I'd love to."

Stepping back, the man she now saw was only clad in some casual clothes and a house robe let her in. Walking through the door, she couldn't help but be taken aback by the state of the apartment.

Spying a skull on the mantelpiece, she jokingly asked, "Whose is it?"

Turning his gaze in the direction of her pointing finger, he replied, "Don't know. It was the product of a case."

"A case? So you're a detective?"

"Yes. A consulting detective, actually. The only one in the world," he continued, chest seeming to puff out in pride at his statement.

"That's cool," she stated. "It sounds like a fun job. I'm assuming, given your occupation, that you're extremely intelligent?"

He nodded. Hum, he possesses no modesty, she observed, watching him.

"I usually do the job of the police. They are extremely well adept at not knowing what to do," he expressed, causing her to laugh.

"Most people are that way," she stated, smiling at him.

His brows furrowed. This woman was . . . different. It's not that he couldn't deduce anything from her, he could. Like the fact that she loved reading, had lived in the countryside, and was anti-social, but the woman herself was something new to him. He watched her as she looked around the flat and was amused by the expression on her face when she happened upon the bullet holes in the wall.

"Bored often?" she deduced correctly, much to his surprise.

"Yes, actually. It appeases it a bit."

She turned to look at him, wearing a cautious expression. "I didn't just step into the flat of a psychopath, did I?"

He shook his head, exasperated that someone else had used the term loosely.

"No, I'm not a psychopath," he assured her. She nodded in relief. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath." At this she turned back to him.

"I would say that I love your dry sense of humor except for the fact that you don't seem to be joking."

"Most people react that way," he told her, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't expect you to understand."

"I am not most people, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, really? What makes you say that?" he questioned, looking over at her skeptically. Her demeanor did not change. It remained completely cool and calm.

"Even though I may not be on your level of intelligence, and I'm assuming by your obvious arrogance that most people aren't and you know it, I am not any less than you. I am not stupid, and I'll even go so far as to say you don't think I am either given that you have let me into your flat which you normally wouldn't do."

"How do you know I normally wouldn't?" he asked, liking where this was going. It was true, she wasn't like most people, and he liked that. A lot.

"You do recall the less that welcome entrance you gave me? That and the fact that your friend Mr. Watson said that you didn't much care for people sort of gave it away. Also, your belief that most people are stupid would keep you from inviting most people into your home as you would become irritated all too quickly by them."

"You are correct. Except for one thing," he stated, catching her attention. "It's _Dr._ Watson. You failed to deduce that."

"Ah, the science of deductive reasoning. Interesting. But yes, I failed to deduce that. I, however, am not the detective. You are obligated to observe and add up such things. That is your job."

The curly-haired man cocked an eyebrow. "So you are blaming the fact that you are not a detective for your inability to deduce Dr. Watson's occupation?"

"What I'm saying is, I've never had a reason to use deductive reasoning everyday, therefore do not apply it as you do. To you it comes naturally because you are used to using it. I on the other hand, would have to try strenuously just to make a minor deduction about a person."

She said all this while looking him in the eye, and smiled at him when she was done. Maybe she didn't have the same skills as he did, but her mind was still formidable. What did Mrs. Hudson say about her? That she was going to the University of London?

"What are you going for?" he asked out of the blue, causing her to look back at him slightly confused. Then, going by process of elimination, she realized what he was asking.

"Oh, I want to be a radiologist," she answered.

"Why?"

It was strange that this man wanted to know so much about her. From what she's seen, he seemed to be asperger, and they usually only care about their own little obsessions. It wasn't out of cruelty, it was just how they were. Therefore the fact that he was intrigued by her interests was odd.

"I've always wanted to do something in the medical profession," she explained. "Science was always my favorite subject in school. Radiology was my pick because of the salary," she confessed. "I wasn't born with the money to do much, so having enough money to see that I don't ever have to worry about my finances was always a big thing."

"A sensible choice then," Sherlock commented. A silence then ensued, exploiting the anti-social tendencies of both parties. Eventually the silence was finally broken by the detective's question of, "Have you had dinner?"

To be honest, Rhianna was taken aback by the remark. She had started this journey with the intention of gaining a light bulb, not a boyfriend; though she didn't fear that was the case in any way.

Eventually, she answered in the negative, causing Sherlock to make the statement, "I'm sure we've got sandwiches somewhere in here," and run off to the kitchen.

She just couldn't get enough of this man. He was so different, for lack of a better word. Maybe weird would have worked, but it just didn't seem right. He was something she had not expected when she came to London, and she definitely wasn't going to be telling her mother about it. That would just lead to an unwanted visit from her parents. No, she was going to keep her curiosity in one Sherlock Holmes a secret for the time being and eat his sandwiches instead.

* * *

Thank you for reading the first chapter of my story! I hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

I'd like to say thanks to all of you that favorited and reviewed. It means a lot to me that you all like this story. Here's the second chapter. Enjoy!

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_**Chapter Two**_

It certainly hadn't been Dr. Watson's intention to interrupt a dinner. Especially one between his less than tolerant flatmate and a woman. This was . . . weird. It was weird. John had no other word for it. I mean, they're only eating sandwiches, John thought as he shut the door behind him. Both sets of eyes looked up with marginal interest; one pair blue-gray, the other brown. John felt that he was intruding, despite the fact that he lived there. Rhianna smiled at him, and sent a, "Hi, Dr. Watson," as Sherlock jumped up from his armchair like he had been ejected from it by some invisible force.

"John!" he stated, a bit loudly. "I thought the movie lasted until eight."

Not changing expression, John calmly answered, "Yeah, well, it didn't go that well." He was preparing himself for one of Sherlock's barbs. They always came. You'd think his love life was the man's comic relief.

"Can't win them all, John. Besides, barbeque is always an instant turn off."

Roughly wiping the sauce from the corner of his mouth, the doctor irritatedly replied, "I don't come to _you_ for dating advice, Sherlock."

The detective shrugged and walked into the kitchen, coming back with a cup of tea. "Tea if you want," he announced in John's direction, then sat back down in his chair.

With not so much as a glance toward that insufferable man, John marched into the kitchen. The tea was there, just as he said it would be, and he gladly poured himself a cup. Ugh. It had been a long day, and one which he didn't wish to reminiscence over. Trudging back into the sitting room, he took up post on the couch, silently sipping his beverage.

He didn't exactly know what to say in this situation. Rhianna was a nice enough girl, but he hadn't figured on finding her in his flat with Sherlock of all people. He hadn't even been sure if she would get the light bulb, much less a turkey and swiss. Maybe this was some twisted plot of Sherlock's. Was it to pay him back for throwing out his experiment on animal droppings (which, in his defense, should not be kept in the kitchen)? Did he plan to make extravagant deductions about the woman then send her running out the door never to speak to them again? That sounds like something Sherlock would do. Actually, it sounds like something he'd done before . . . .

"John?"

The doctor was jolted out of his thoughts by his flatmate's sudden exclamation. Trying to wipe the remaining remnants of shock from his face, he sat up straight and asked, "What?"

"Are you alright? You are unusually quiet."

"Yeah – er – I'm fine," he returned, eyes darting to the floor. As if for want of something to do, he brought his mug back to his lips and swallowed some more of the brown liquid.

Sherlock, much to John's relief, didn't press the issue. He couldn't just come out and say, 'Oh yeah, I'm just surprised you let someone in our flat to have some dinner instead of using them as a moving target for your gun.' Eventually though, Rhianna must have felt the tension and stood up from her seat.

"Thank you very much for the dinner, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid I have to get back to my room. Do you mind if I take that light bulb back with me?"

"There are some in a box in the cabinet under the sink," he explained, waving his hand in that direction.

"Thank you," she said before disappearing into the kitchen. She came back a few seconds later, bulb in tow. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." And with that, she vanished into the hallway and down the stairs.

John and Sherlock sat there a little while longer without exchanging words before John spoke up.

"So, what was that all about?" he inquired, giving Sherlock a suspicious glance.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why did you let our new neighbor in for a sandwich dinner? You hate it when people who don't have a case for you come here!"

"I'd attempt to keep the noise at a minimum, John. She does live just below us, you know."

Eyes widening as he realized how loud he had been, he lowered his voice and stated, "That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't know what to tell you, John," Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. "It's like you expect every good deed of mine to be the beginning of a devious plot."

"Because your good deeds aren't good deeds," he input. "They are manipulating gestures to help you get what you want."

"What could I possibly want from her?" Sherlock asked, getting annoyed by the barrage of questions. "If you feel so strongly about it, I won't speak with her again."

"That's not what I'm saying," John objected. He didn't want to discourage social interaction between his friend and other people. Actually, he usually wished he would at least try to get to know people better instead of just deducing everything about them and tossing them aside. However, thanks to the detective's wonderful acting skills, he could never tell whether he was sincere or not, and he did not want their new neighbor being preyed upon. "Just don't be mean to her, Sherlock."

"Don't be mean to her? You act as though we're in high school. Don't worry, I don't intend to 'be mean' to her. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go check on my bacteria." Pushing himself out of his armchair, he strode into the kitchen.

"I can't believe you are growing that putrid stuff," John complained, downing the last of his tea.

"Rhianna thought it was interesting," Sherlock pouted, placing a slide under the microscope.

John had just enough sense to look surprised as he shot, "That's because she doesn't have to live with it." Though he said this as part of their usual banter, he couldn't help but feel slightly unsettled. Someone else who was interested in Sherlock's experiments and could spend time alone in his presence without being offended or cast out? Oh God. There were two of them.

)*(

The shallow light filtering through her window the next morning was enough to wake Rhianna up. It was notably earlier than she would have liked, so she attempted to go back to sleep. When that plan failed, she gave a short growl and flung back the covers, springing from the mattress. Fine then! She'd eat breakfast instead!

Luckily, she had also picked up some staple food items yesterday to put in her very tiny kitchen, which Mrs. Hudson told her was newly put together. It took up the left side of her room and consisted of a refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, and a stove. She supposed that was all that was needed for a kitchen, and didn't complain about it.

Taking a package of turkey bacon from the refrigerator, she slapped some on a plate and stuck it in the microwave. Next, plugging in the toaster she brought from home, she inserted two slices of bread and pushed down the lever. Soon her little room was filled with the smells of breakfast which made it feel a little bit more like an actual home. Well, as much as a single room can be a home.

She was just about to turn on the TV to see what was on until she remembered . . . she didn't have one.

"I'm really going to have to go shopping," she moped, slumping down on her bed with her plate of food.

Hurriedly, she ate her breakfast and got ready to, once again, go shopping. Since her room didn't have its own bathroom, she just brushed her teeth at the kitchen sink and did her makeup in front of the small mirror in her kit. She was done and out the door in forty minutes.

It didn't take long to find a cab to take her to the nearest electronics store. A TV was needed. Okay, well, it was more convenient than extremely important, but she was going to have to buy one eventually. Before she knew it, she was standing in front of a wide range of options, trying to find the most cost effective one. A wall-mountable one would be preferable, as her flat couldn't relinquish the floor space. Just as she was trying to decide between two choices that were on sale, a familiar voice called out to her.

"Oh, Rhianna, wasn't it?"

She turned around to see the young man that had given her directions at University walking toward her with a smile.

"Yes, it was," she replied. "Nice to see you again, Sean."

Striding up beside her, he gazed at the two TVs she was picking from and said, "The one on the right's the better one. It's resolution is top notch."

"Oh. Thanks. Then that's the one I'll get," Rhianna commented, about to pick up the box.

"Here, I'll get it for you," he offered, lifting it himself and placing it in her cart. "Is there anything else you need?"

"I wasn't planning on buying anything else, but I'm sure I'll find something I'm missing by the time I get back to the flat," she mused, thinking of all the absent conveniences she left back in America. She even started to think about her Himalayan cat, Shadow, who could not come with her on the trip overseas. Man, she missed that cat.

"Are you alright?" Sean asked, waving his hand in front of her face.

Blinking a couple times, she came back to her senses and nodded vigorously.

"Yeah, just started zoning out there, sorry."

"No problem. It must be hard, being in a new country and all."

"Well, it's not particularly easy, but no one's been an ass to me so far."

He laughed. "That's always a plus, I suppose. So, you headed back now?"

"Yeah. I'm going to try to mount this thing on my wall without killing myself or anybody else."

Smiling he offered, "I could help you. I'm from an all girl family, so I was the handy man of the house. This will take me no time."

"Are you sure? I hate to impose . . . ."

"It's fine. I'll just swing by with you and put it up. Should be done before teatime."

"When precisely is that?" she asked, cocking her head. "Do you guys designate a time for tea?" She knew her question sounded stupid, but there were a lot of things about this new culture that she was unaware of. Like slang for one. Apparently crisps were potato chips. Who knew?

"I'm using it as an expression, but there are people who have scheduled teatimes. In England's history tea was a major commodity, so there are different times for it. There's afternoon tea, which is done in the afternoon as the name states, or there is high tea which is more of a dinner thing."

"Amazing," Rhianna marveled. "Maybe they should schedule times to consume coffee in America."

"This late in the game I highly doubt it would catch on," he joked as they made it to the checkout.

Thankfully, the line was short, and they didn't have long to wait before they were tallied up and paid. Sean was kind enough to flag down a cab afterword, and in short time they were headed to Baker Street. Unfortunately, a traffic accident led the cab driver to take a different route, lengthening the drive to an annoying amount of time.

Rhianna was trying to contain her irritation when suddenly the car came to an abrupt stop, causing her to jolt forward and almost smack her head on the plastic screen before her.

"What on earth was that?" she hissed, looking over at Sean and then out onto the street. Sean gave a shrug, following her gaze.

"Is that the police?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"It would appear so," she commented, getting out of the car.

"Where do you think you're going?" Sean hollered.

"Where do you think?" she returned, cocking an eyebrow, her trademark sign of irritation.

"And what do you suppose to do?"

She shrugged. "Ask them what's so important that it has to stop traffic." Seeing his worried face, she sighed. "Don't worry. I highly doubt they'll arrest me for being curious." Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed toward the flashing lights of the police vehicles. Unable to sit still, Sean unbuckled and followed suit.

According to the signs, they were currently on Rossmore Road which was situated near Regents Park. Baker Street wasn't far, however, this new enigma proved to be much more stimulating than mounting a TV on her wall.

Strutting up to the police tape, she politely called out to the closest person, "Excuse me, ma'am. Could you tell me what's going on? Why has traffic stopped?"

The woman that turned to her was a slim African American with curly black hair that was left to hang around her face. She wore a long sleeved, collared white shirt with a black pencil skirt that stopped just above the knees, and black close-toed heels. Quite prim and proper, Rhianna thought as the woman walked over to speak with her.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" the woman questioned, looking the American over.

"Yes, I was just wondering why the traffic had been stopped. Was there an accident?"

"I guess you could say that," the woman answered vaguely. By now Sean had reached them, coming up behind Rhianna in a protective stance. "This your boyfriend?"

"No. He's a college friend. So what exactly did happen?"

"A man was found dead in one of those flats up there," she explained, turning and pointing at an apartment complex behind her. "Shot in the chest. The Yard's investigating it."

"I hope they make progress," Rhianna commented.

"That's awful," Sean added, peering up at the posh building. "He rich or something?"

The woman shrugged. "Couldn't tell you that. We just got here a moment ago, and I'm just trying to make sure nobody gets in that shouldn't."

"Well, I hope they catch the guy," Rhianna stated. She was about to get Sean and leave when a familiar voice reached her ears.

"What's going on?" a man asked.

"Murder. Don't know all the details yet. Hopefully it will be something at least mildly diverting. Rhianna? What are you doing here?"

The man stopped dead in his tracks and looked over inquiringly at the short brunette.

"I was just riding through the neighborhood. Are you on this case, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade just asked for me," the detective answered, holding up his phone. "I see you've met Sally."

She turned her attention to the police officer she had just been chatting with. The woman, whose name was supposedly Sally, did not look all too happy to see her neighbor and his flatmate. She imaged that wasn't too hard to conceive, as Sherlock treated almost everybody like a dispensable idiot.

"Don't tell me he called _you_ in," Sally mumbled with a look of disdain.

"Sorry, Sally. It appears I'm needed yet again." That's when Sherlock noticed Sean standing silently off to the side. "And who might you be?" he asked.

"I'm Sean Mallory," he replied, holding out his hand. "Nice meeting you."

Sherlock looked at the hand as though it might jump up and eat him any second. Feeling awkward, Sean pulled it back to his side.

"You know Miss Arico?" Sherlock probed with an air of suspicion.

"Yes. I met her at the University the other day. We were just going to install a TV in her flat." Here he gestured to the waiting cab. "Are you a friend?"

"She's my neighbor. I live on the floor above."

Sally, who had been watching this little exchange quietly, smiled in amusement. "So you have a neighbor?" she chimed, grinning. "I wondered how you two knew each other. Is it hell living in the same building?" She directed this last question to Rhianna who looked a bit surprised by it.

"No," she answered truthfully. "It's fine enough."

After a moment of silence, Sean stepped forward and said, "Sorry for taking up your time. We'll just be leaving now. Come on, Rhianna."

She turned to follow when Sherlock called out to her.

"Pity. I was hoping to show you what I did for a living, as you seemed so interested in it when we talked the other day. I suppose it will have to wait until another time."

She froze in her tracks. That was so obviously meant to have her running back to him, but she didn't much care. Her curiosity in her neighbor was growing each day, and mysteries had always fascinated her. Surely Sean could install the TV without her?

"Sean?"

"Yeah?" he asked, stopping in his progression toward the cab. "What is it?"

"Could you install the TV without me? I mean, you don't need me there, do you?"

The man looked surprised, then an expression of contempt crossed his features when he glanced back at the detective behind her. "I suppose I could manage," he seethed. "Are you sure this is okay? There was a guy murdered in there, and your neighbor doesn't seem like the most reliable of people."

"It'll be fine. Dr. Watson will be with me. You don't have to install the TV if you don't want to. You could just drop it off at the address. I'm really sorry to do this to you, but I'm extremely interested in this business." She looked up at him with pleading eyes until he finally sighed in defeat.

"Fine. I'll drop the TV off. I guess I'll see you when the semester starts?"

"Of course."

After a goodbye wave, Sean was back in the cab headed to Baker Street. Turning on her heel, Rhianna walked back to her neighbor who was beaming in triumph.

"You needn't look so happy with yourself," she stated. "Now, you are going to show me, aren't you?"

"Of course! I did say that, didn't I?"

"Just making sure you weren't just trying to piss off Sean. You two took an instant hating toward each other."

"I take an instant hating to a lot of people," he responded.

"So I gathered," she muttered, looking over at Sally whose mouth was gaping like that of a fish.

"I'll go up an have a look now," Sherlock announced, ducking under the police tape. John did the same, and Sally lifted it for Rhianna. After she had done so, she pulled on the woman's sleeve.

"What is it?" Rhianna asked.

Sally looked over at the distancing backs of Sherlock and John before warning, "It would be in your best interest to stay away from that guy. He's a psychopath, and you won't want to be around when he gets bored with following the law."

She didn't much know why, but the comment of caution really vexed her. With a cocky arrogance, she turned to the officer and replied, "He's not a psychopath, he's a high-functioning sociopath. Now please release my arm."

Too stunned to talk, Sally retracted her grip and watched as the young American went to join the crime solving duo.

Damn, Sally thought. This couldn't be good.

* * *

Hey everybody! Thank you for all of your positive attention toward my story! I know the chapters are a bit short, but I try to make them as interesting as possible. So now Rhianna has met Sally Donovan and is about to embark on her first mystery with Sherlock. This could be fun. We also have Sean Mallory, college friend, in our story. He and Sherlock don't seem to get on. Was it just me, or did Sherlock seem a bit jealous? Well, only time will tell, and we all know he won't admit to it easily. Please feel free to review! I'll try to have the next chapter up soon!


	3. Chapter 3

Here is chapter three, the first mystery! It's a bit of a minor one to introduce the characters to investigating together. This particular one will probably only cover two chapters. I wonder if any of you can find out who the criminal is before Sherlock reveals the answer later on? Best of luck!

* * *

_**Chapter Three**_

The feeling of being on a crime scene was kind of strange. It's one thing watching it on a movie (which she did, often), but actually _being_ there was a completely different story. Police officers and building residents were wandering around outside, going about their appointed duty or asking what in blazes was going on. The street was blocked by police cars and a rather large crowd was gathering outside the circumference of the yellow tape.

In all honesty, Rhianna felt extremely out of place. She had no real reason for being there, and there wasn't anything she could particularly offer to the case. Getting in everyone's way was pretty much all she was doing, though turning back now was out of the question. If she did, she knew she would have Sherlock to answer to later that night, and that itself was a scary thought.

Her short legs had to work twice as hard to keep up with Sherlock's hurried pace. John seemed to be used to it, not even breaking a sweat as he marched alongside his flatmate. Funny, she thought, she hadn't noticed that stiffness in his shoulder before. Wonder where that came from? If she were Sherlock Holmes, she would no doubt be able to figure that out for herself, however, she was not and knew she had no chance of doing so. Leave the sleuthing to the detective.

The apartment complex they were heading toward was a pretty posh one, several stories high with a gate guarding the vehicle entryway. There was a few plots of grass here and there to give it a sophisticated look, and even an impressive tree or two. As they neared the edifice the congestion of people increased tenfold.

She recalled how the cops in the movies were always able to skillfully weave through the crowds around a crime scene when they were called in for duty. There was none of that crap going on now. Every few seconds another person, intent on their destination, would rudely, almost violently, shove their way past, nearly bowling her over. It would have been a comic scene had it been happening to anyone but her.

Finally, they made it inside where men and woman in blue body suits were milling about. Right when she was about to ask Sherlock what they were going to do next, a voice called out to them.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?" a man asked, stepping out of the group of people to address the detective at her side.

"You sent for me," Sherlock reminded, shaking his cellphone.

"No I didn't. Oh well, this one's proving to be a little difficult anyway, though the cause of death is easy enough to grasp. You could look it over if you want. We're pretty sure it was suicide."

"Nothing was touched?" Sherlock asked, completely ignoring the man's comment.

As though this were normal, the man shook his head. "Only what was necessary for forensics, though there's not much physical evidence to begin with."

"You mean not any you lot have picked up on," he corrected. Her analysis had been correct. He was an ass.

"Can you help us?" the man asked a bit roughly, visibly agitated. Who could blame him?

"It wouldn't be the first time."

This comment was ignored however, when the cop caught eye of her.

"Who's this?" he asked in surprise, giving Sherlock a shocked look.

"This is a woman."

"Why, you don't say?" Lestrade mocked, rolling his eyes. "I mean who is she?"

"I brought her along."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Seeing that he was not going to receive a straight answer if left up to the six foot tall five year old, she intervened.

"I'm Rhianna Arico, Sherlock's neighbor." She stuck out her hand to the gaping officer, who eventually took it and gave it a firm shake.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, and why, may I ask, are you here?"

Good question, she thought, but answered him with a smile. "Sherlock invited me to watch him during his investigation. It's bring your neighbor to work day, you see, and I just happened to be on hand."

Lestrade seemed both amused and shocked by her explanation, turning instead to Sherlock and asking, "Will you have an entire class with you next week? I don't want my crime scenes becoming field trips."

"If you want me to leave – "

"No, no, you don't have to leave. Lestrade's just a bit worked up because he's stumped again. Besides, you're with me, which guarantees you entry, isn't that right, Inspector?"

The D.I.'s entire expression had hardened at Sherlock's comment, almost as if he were being blackmailed. The authority he seemed to be flaunting a moment before had disappeared, leaving behind a deflated Inspector Lestrade.

"If you really want her to – "

"I do. Now can we get to the crime scene before the corpse decays?"

Without another word, Lestrade turned his back to them and walked toward the elevator, the three of them following just behind him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a gangly rat-faced man glaring at them with a scornful expression. He looked a bit comedic with his blue body suit and oversized nose, but his disgust was evident. She guessed he was part of the police force. So he had more than one enemy, this Sherlock Holmes.

They all four entered the elevator, and Lestrade pressed the button that would take them to the sixth floor. As the floor numbers on the screen got higher, Lestrade began to explain what had occurred.

"Conner Williams, the victim, lived in apartment 306 on the sixth level. He moved here about a year ago and has always been a pretty quiet resident."

"Getting to what matters," Sherlock grunted, eyes staring at nothing in particular.

Lestrade sighed and did as he asked. "The man was found dead in his flat by a neighbor of his, Mrs. Morris, a widow who was going to offer the victim some leftover vegetable soup. Apparently she did this sort of thing often. When he didn't answer, she got worried, as he always answered his door. Having not heard him go out, she called for security and they were able to unlock the door and get inside. When they did, Williams' body was found in the middle of his living room floor, gun in hand and bullet in his brain. The estimated time of death is midnight to one in the morning. There was no evidence of anyone breaking in, and with the weapon being in his grasp and having only his finger prints on it, there doesn't seem to be much doubt as to who killed him."

"Nonetheless, I would like to see for myself," Sherlock stated.

"If it would please you."

"It would indeed."

There was a single ding signaling the elevator's arrival at their destination. The silver metallic doors slid open, revealing a luxurious hallway on the other side. Rhianna was impressed to say the least. Plush, ivory carpet ran along the corridor, and she smirked to find that it felt like treading on a marshmallow when she stepped on it. The walls were white, though light brown wood skirting decorated the bottom portion, giving it a very elegant style. Chiseled crystal lighting fixtures shaped like domes were spaced out along the ceiling, bathing the entire area with bright light. It was quite a grand place to live.

"Woah," John whistled, eyes as large as saucers. This place was much nicer than their rooms at Baker Street where the closet thing to a decoration was a spray painted smiley face. John couldn't even change his shirt in that room without feeling like he was being watched.

Sherlock, having no time to take in the niceties of their surroundings, continued barraging Lestrade with questions.

"Did anyone hear the gun shot?"

"No. Mrs. Morris is a heavy sleeper, and she always has classical music playing at all hours. A couple that lives two doors down from the victim claim to have heard nothing, as the husband was working overtime at the office and the wife is a heavy sleeper. There were a couple other people that live on this floor, but they were either away on vacation or out clubbing at the time."

"Where are Mrs. Morris and the wife?"

"Mrs. Morris has insisted on staying in her apartment, and Mrs. Lane and her husband are packing up the necessities and going to stay at a hotel. Apparently living close to a room where a dead body has been found upsets the digestion."

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, leaving us to walk down the hall.

"There are enough parts in our rooms to _build_ a body," John commented drily.

"Sadly, this does not surprise me," Rhianna murmured, following the three men. They were just about to reach the door of 306 when a man and a woman, looking to be in their forties, came flying out of a nearby doorway, bulky suitcases in each hand.

As if it had been a formal meeting, Sherlock stepped in their path, blocking them from their escape, and smiled. No, it wasn't a trick of the light, he actually smiled.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lane, I presume? Where are you going in such haste?"

Irate that they had been caught in their getaway, the husband, who looked to be Korean, began to reproach the meddling detective.

"We are trying to leave this cursed building! Now, will you kindly get out of our way?!"

"You do realize this makes it look like you're running from something," Sherlock explained, smile dropping into a menacing frown.

The husband's confidence shrank. "I – I thought this was a suicide. At least that's what the police were saying."

"Nothing's set in stone," Sherlock said, looking over to the wife who was wiping her red eyes.

"Were you close to him?"John asked concerned.

She shook her head. "My contacts are irritating me."

John was a little ruffled by this statement. A man had been found dead for crying out loud. Did nobody care?

Rhianna on the other hand was marveling at the amount of makeup the woman wore. She probably had to use a shovel to apply it. Mrs. Lane resembled a gaudy barbie doll with her fake lashes and layer after layer of dark eyeshadow. It was more like her intent had been to create a mask instead of enhance her facial beauty.

Lestrade saw the couple's apparent alarm at Sherlock's threat and attempted to pacify them.

"We're just making sure we leave no stone unturned. You're not being accused of anything."

"I'll decide that," Sherlock interrupted, ruining the Inspector's efforts. "Where do you work, Mr. Lane?"

"I am a business man from South Korea," he explained, begrudgingly answering Sherlock's question. "I have been living here in England for over a year setting up a branch office in London. Last night I was going through some paperwork that had been left undone. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"And your wife?"

"Was sleeping," he snapped.

"You may go now, Mr. and Mrs. Lane, but only as far as the lobby. We wouldn't want you sneaking away before this case is solved, now would we?"

"You have no right to tell us what to do!" the man shouted, his face red with fury. "Tell him, Inspector!"

"Let me escort you down to the lobby, Mr. and Mrs. Lane. Please do not leave until everything is settled."

"But, Inspector!" the wife shouted.

Lestrade held up his hand as a signal for silence, which she obeyed. "Come with me, please."

Seeing as they had no choice in the matter, the couple followed the Inspector back to the elevator and down to the lobby.

"Charming couple," Rhianna mumbled under her breath. Sherlock however was already on his way to Mr. Williams' room.

From the outside, apartment 306 didn't look like anything special. It was just a white door with golden embossed numbers on the front indicating its place in the building. No one would have guessed that what laid behind was a lifeless corpse with a gun in its hand. Just as Sherlock was about to enter this seemingly innocent room, a door from behind flew open and an elderly voice addressed them.

"Are you here to take Conner away?" it asked.

It wasn't hard to put two and two together and discover that the woman speaking to us was none other than Mrs. Morris herself, who had apparently decided to come out of hiding and inquire as to their business.

"Are you taking him with you?" she probed further, annoying the living daylights out of Rhianna. Okay, at least the woman cared about her now deceased neighbor, but she didn't have to be so irksome about it.

"No," John assured, turning to face her. "We are just coming to see the state of things. There is nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about? Nothing to worry about?! A man is dead, and you say there is nothing to worry about?!"

Dear God woman, calm yourself.

"He didn't mean to offend you, ma'am," Rhianna cut in, silencing the squawking crow. "We are just doing our duty, so please let us do so."

The old woman stood there for a bit, opening and closing her mouth, each time seeming like she was going to say something but not. Eventually though, she regained her composure and calmed down to a rational level.

"Do forgive me I . . . I'm just so disturbed by Mr. Williams' death. He was a very nice man; it's such a shame."

"It is indeed, ma'am. I'm sure he appreciated having such a caring woman as a neighbor."

She brightened up at this, managing to smile a bit. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. Thank you, and . . . um . . . please forgive me for being so rude."

"Of course. Good day, Mrs. Morris."

"And to you," she returned before disappearing back into her abode.

"Well. Okay then," John stuttered, looking with an expression of confusion at the door Mrs. Morris had just shut.

"What wonderful residents this building has," Rhianna said sarcastically, cocking an eyebrow.

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered. "Hopefully the rest of our investigation will pass without any further interruptions."

With a twist of the doorknob, the three of them entered 306 only to be met with an excruciatingly macabre sight. There, exactly where the Inspector said he would be, was Conner Williams, bullet through his temple.

* * *

Here is chapter three! Sorry for updating a little later than usual. I was on vacation. Anyway, not as much character bonding in this chapter, as Sherlock is on a case and he cannot be distracted. Rhianna is getting to see first hand what Sherlock is like toward people on a daily basis and what he has to put up with. She even got to meet Lestrade, whom I think is amazing. Hopefully the first mystery will spice up the story a bit. I'll be posting the next chapter soon, and it should be fun seeing how Sherlock and Rhianna interact on a crime scene investigation. Thank you for all your kind reviews and support!


	4. Chapter 4

Here's Chapter Four! Sorry it took a while to get it posted. I'm never not busy. Case conclusion time, so set up your bets. Who's the murderer? Or is it murder at all . . . .

P.S. Thanks for all your support with this story. It's still kind of surreal that there are people actually reading my fanfiction. Please feel free to review!

* * *

_**Chapter Four**_

The few officers that were in the room left when Sherlock entered, leaving the detective, John, and Rhianna alone with the corpse. What a lovely thing to write home to mom about, Rhianna thought as she shut the door behind her. Sherlock began work immediately, John looking about the room like he was contemplating a move from his Baker Street lodgings.

The sight of the body was slightly unsettling, it being her first, but she was not one for being squeamish. Powder burns were on his skin, the gun had obviously been held close at the time of firing. Right against his head.

"This was murder," Sherlock announced out of the blue, shaking her from her thoughts.

"Why do you say so?" she asked, stepping closer to look at what he was investigating.

"Why should I tell you?" he questioned, looking up at her with a matter-of-fact expression.

This irked her, and she showed as much by cocking her eyebrow and saying, "Because I asked you nicely?"

He shook his head. "That's too boring. I got you access to this crime scene, now I want to see what you can figure out by yourself."

"Would my fumbling about amuse you?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"I want to see just how far you can go," he explained, giving a quick smile. "You being lacking in the field of deductive reasoning."

"Fine, I'll try! But stop baiting me. It's annoying."

"Very well." His smile broadened, and John noted it.

Rhianna examined the body minutely, but could find nothing of significance. The man was dead. What more could she add?

"Don't limit your investigation to just the body," Sherlock instructed, gesturing to the rest of the room. "Look at everything. A person's place of residence can tell you scores about their character, past, and possibly their future. You just have to know what to look at and how to connect the dots."

John was about to combust. The first time he had missed something, Sherlock had explained to him that it was because he was an idiot. Now, however, he was acting patient, almost seeming to enjoy teaching her how to use his tricks. He didn't know whether to be disturbed or amazed. The only other woman he had ever taken an interest in had been Irene Adler, but that hadn't stopped him from foiling her plans. Now he believed her to be in witness protection in America with a new identity. It was better than him knowing the truth anyway.

While John was trying to sort out his thoughts concerning Sherlock and women, Rhianna took Sherlock's advice and began peering about the rest of the flat.

It was a nice place, to be sure. The furniture was expensive and the champagne in the refrigerator was a well known brand, one that she couldn't even afford in her dreams. The man was a bachelor, if the absence of a wedding ring meant anything, and the apartment itself showed all the signs of a bachelor pad except for one thing: it was clean. Everything was put away neatly on shelves, straight and orderly.

The bathroom cabinet held aftershave, eye drops, aspirin, and mouthwash. The kitchen had expensive desserts and snack foods. A lot for one man, she mused. In the bedroom the sheets were clean and folded, there being nothing else of much consequence. At first she could come to no conclusion. I mean, the expensive and fancy food could either be the cause of a lady friend he had come over often, or a big appetite on his part. Yet the man was skinny, she remembered.

She could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of her head, making her self conscious. This wasn't her job, so why was he making her do it? Ugh. Then something hit her.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he asked, immediately responding as if he had been waiting for the question.

"Do you know if Mr. Williams had poor eyesight?"

"He did not. No glasses, no contacts."

The eye drops. He didn't need them for contact irritation. Allergies? Yet there was no medication for drowsiness or any other symptoms specific to them. Why did he have them, unless, the eye drops were not his.

"Mrs. Lane," she murmured, head snapping up.

"Come again?" Sherlock questioned, getting excited. She was getting warmer. He could practically see the gears turning in her brain.

"Mrs. Lane's eyes were irritated as she was leaving, and she did have quite a lot of makeup on, similar to a – er – woman of loose morals. Do you think she was his mistress?"

"I don't think it," Sherlock beamed. "I know it. Quite a good job you did there, now, can you deduce who the murderer is?"

She thought for a moment. The only person she could connect Conner Williams to with the evidence provided was Mrs. Lane, yet it didn't seem likely that she would kill her lover. When Lestrade signaled for her to be silent back there in the hall, she complied automatically. She seemed passive, hardly a cold blooded killer. Though that wasn't enough to clear her. Who truly knows the mind of a murderer? But what could she possibly gain from killing him? Wouldn't that just make it inconvenient for her? Actually, come to think of it, she hadn't come across any evidence that suggested it even was murder. She was just taking Sherlock's word for it. Yet she hadn't attempted to contradict it. She just took it for fact. Odd.

"No luck?" the detective pushed, trying to break her silent stretch.

"I don't think _she's_ the killer," Rhianna explained, "but I found no evidence alluding to anyone else. Common sense says that the enraged husband would have done it out of jealousy, but that's just conjecture."

"That is making a theory that explains all the facts," Sherlock corrected. "In order to prove that theory right or wrong, we must test it against what we discover. I will take over from here."

"Be my guest."

Nodding, he clapped his hands together and took a deep breath. She felt a lengthy monologue coming on.

"Now, we have already concluded that Mr. Williams was having a clandestine affair with his neighbor's wife, not exactly the brightest idea, but it was done nonetheless. It is clear from the expensive food, ungodly amount of champagne, clean state of the flat, and bottle of eye drops that she was over often, and that it had been going on for some time. Mr. Lane has a job that keeps him late at the office on a regular basis, giving his unfaithful wife ample time to fraternize with their neighbor. It is my opinion that Mr. Lane found out about this liaison and decided to eradicate the problem. Note that the door was not forced and the lock showing no signs of being picked. This led to the police's belief in suicide. However, as we have discovered, Mrs. Morris has a habit of bringing food to her neighbor at all hours, and he always answers the door for her. Mr. Lane no doubt noticed this, and used it as a way to get into the apartment without leaving any signs of his entry."

"It makes sense," John interrupted, "but without evidence, we can't tie down Mr. Lane for the crime. A jury is not going to believe us because an old woman is overgenerous with her cooking. Besides, he has an alibi."

"He _says_ he has an alibi. It hasn't been checked up on yet. Now kindly allow me to finish my deductions," Sherlock spat, causing John to roll his eyes. Sometimes his best friend was way too dramatic. Sherlock went on with his speech.

"Do you see this gun the man is gripping in his hand?"

"Yes," Rhianna confirmed. "What of it?"

"It is a Daewoo Precision Industries K5 military pistol. This manufacturer is founded in – "

"Korea!" Rhianna finished for him.

"Precisely. Mr. Lane is a Korean business man who would have no troubles getting a hold of one."

"Couldn't Mr. Williams have bought one as well?" John asked, trying to cover all the bases.

"The answer to that question should be the most obvious," Sherlock stated, giving John an exasperated look.

"And that would be?"

"The case! Where's the case, John? It's not in this apartment, so where is it? Probably with its owner, Mr. Lane."

"Do you think he has it in his luggage down in the lobby?" Rhianna asked, looking over at Sherlock who nodded.

"He was probably planning to get rid of it once they escaped from the building."

"We've got to go after him then!" John cried. "Lestrade may let him go!"

"Agreed. We've done all we can here."

"The fingerprints," Rhianna started. "I'm assuming Mr. Lane wore gloves and after shooting Mr. Williams in the temple he put the gun in his hand leaving only the victim's prints on the weapon."

"That's how I see it," Sherlock agreed. "Now all we have to do is catch our murderer and see if he has the case."

Without another word the three of them were speeding down the hallway and pounding on the buttons of the elevator (who would not listen to Sherlock's multiple shouts of cooperation). When it opened, Sherlock scared the living daylights out of a woman coming back up to her apartment, eventually pushing her out of the way and leaving John to apologize for his behavior.

When they finally reached the lobby, the walking personality disorder smiled with pleasure when he saw that Mr. and Mrs. Lane were still in Lestrade's custody. The Inspector (who was pacing, by the way) stormed over to them when they exited the lift.

"Have you found anything?" Lestrade asked in a rather hushed voice. Obviously the 'Chief in Charge' did not want others hearing their conversation. It wasn't hard for her to conclude that he was embarrassed at having to come to Holmes for help.

"Just the obvious," he muttered, riling Lestrade.

"Was it a suicide?"

"No."

"It never is."

"Inspector Lestrade, I suggest that instead of grumbling about your misfortunes you go and arrest the murderer who is currently twitching with anger at the far side of the room."

The police officer whipped his head around, allowing his gaze to land on their lovely Mr. Lane. When he returned to Sherlock, he was clearly unhappy with the results of the man's investigation. "Tell me that you aren't suggesting that the murderer is – "

"Mr. Lane. Of course," Sherlock interrupted, confirming Lestrade's foreboding.

"But . . . But why?!"

"Take a closer look at the possessions of the victim and the weapon used," Sherlock said.

It was still not clicking with the Inspector. With a sigh and roll of the eyes, Sherlock went through the entire explanation until he had Lestrade nodding with understanding. By the end of the account, Mr. Lane was cuffed and stuffed into a cop car. The gun case had been found buried under layers of clothing in his suitcase, and with no one at his office to confirm his alibi, his game was up.

Mrs. Lane was crying hysterically, but Rhianna figured it was more out of the loss of her husband's expanding business (and the money it rolled in) than out of love. The makeup she had religiously applied to her face was mixing with her tears and coincidentally running down her cheeks. She was quite a sight in her tight black dress and stiletto Pradas stumbling about the complex's lawn.

"Someone needs a sedative," Rhianna mumbled under her breath.

John, however, heard this. "Her husband did just get arrested you know."

"Not before she cheated on him," she returned. "Unfaithfulness is a most vile attribute. If she really loved him, then why was she being shagged by her neighbor?"

The doctor sniggered at her way of speaking. Her vocabulary was educated and unusual, yet blunt and quite crass. It was an amusing combination. His new neighbor, however, just smiled.

"You've got a wonderful sense of humor, Dr. Watson," she commented, eyes twinkling.

"And you an interesting way of speaking, just John, if you please. You should come over for sandwiches more often."

"I would hate to impose, but I do jump at the mention of free food, John," she laughed. "Besides, another conversation with Sherlock would be entertaining. Last time he showed me a remarkable experiment he was conducting on the growth of a colony of rare bacteria. It was really fascinating, though I didn't know the climate to generate growth could be reproduced in a kitchen."

"He did mention you liking that. You have no idea what he can produce in the kitchen . . . and has . . . ."

"Your kitchen is a world of its own I imagine."

"You have absolutely no idea," John stressed, eyes widening. "One time I came home only to find a severed head in the refrigerator."

"A what?!"

"A head. Apparently it had to be chilled in order to measure the coagulation of saliva after dead."

"Bet it did wonders for the taste of the milk," she joked.

"It did have an unusual tang for a while after that," he stated, expression looking as though he was having a disturbing flashback.

Rhianna turned her head to look at the situation of the area when she spotted the dark headed, rat-faced man in the blue bodysuit glaring at her again.

"Okay, do you know who that guy is?" she asked John, pointing over to her stalker. "Every time I see him he's staring at me."

John followed the direction in which she was pointing and sighed at the man in question. "His name is Anderson. He's the head of forensics and hates Sherlock. He's probably just wondering why you're with us."

"He looks like a creeper," she confessed, shuddering.

"I didn't say he wasn't," John added, grinning ever so slightly. "Though he does get along quite well with Sgt. Donovan."

"Sgt. Donovan?"

"The woman you met when we first got here. She let us in."

"Oh, Sally. Wait. You mean they . . . ?"

"Shag, to use your wording? Yes."

"But he's married. Look, there's a wedding ring on his finger."

"Doesn't stop him."

"Obviously. Why do people get married if they're not going to respect the constitution?"

John shrugged. "Lust?"

"Two words: self control. People need to start thinking with their brains and not their genitalia."

"That could be a slogan."

"It should be. We should put it on coffee mugs."

"That would make me thirsty in the morning."

As they were both laughing, Sherlock approached them from behind.

"What are you two laughing about? Is murder amusing to you?"

"No, but that seems to be the case for you," Rhianna cut, smiling.

"As long as it provides a mystery, yes."

The three of them fell alongside each other, making their way out of the crime scene.

"Where to now?" she asked, looking up at Sherlock.

"My work is done here. I'm heading back to Baker Street."

"I've got to pick up some milk," John said. "We're out. Again."

"I was heading back home anyway," Rhianna stated. "Besides, I need to mount that TV."

"Sounds like fun," John commented sarcastically.

"About as fun as grocery shopping," she returned. "Hated it when I was younger, still hate it now."

"We've got to eat," John shrugged. Then, rethinking it, corrected, "Well, at least some of us do."

"I eat when necessary," Sherlock put in, readjusting his scarf.

"You intending on eating today?" she asked.

He didn't respond as John hailed a cab.

"Off to the grocer's then," he announced, jumping in the vehicle and driving away.

The two remaining comrades stood in silence for a while before one abruptly broke it.

"Lunch?"

"What?" Rhianna inquired, looking up at him with surprise. Did he just ask her to lunch?

"I said, would you like to get some lunch?"

"Sure. Any place in particular?"

With a large smile which she did not know the meaning of, Sherlock Holmes grabbed her wrist and said, "Come with me," just before shoving her into a cab, following her inside and shouting to the driver, "Tierra Brindisa!"

)*(

Before she knew it, she was standing on the pavement outside a little restaurant on Northumberland Street. It was kinda cute, not that she would tell Sherlock that.

"Come here often?" she asked, following him toward the entrance.

"I know the owner," he explained, opening the door for her.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

The inside of the cafe was dimly lit, but small and cozy. A perfect place for lunch. True it was now late in the afternoon, but it was lunch to her. If the food was as pleasing as the atmosphere, then she was in for a treat. Just as they walked in, a man came to retrieve their jackets, draping them over his arm.

"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock uttered as he passed over the article of clothing.

Mr. Holmes seems to be familiar with the place, she observed.

Right as they sat down at a window table, a larger, burly man walked over to them, slapping Sherlock on the back and letting out a raspy burst of laughter.

"Sherlock Holmes! What a pleasure! Wonderful of you to come back, and with such a pretty lady! A date?"

"Hello, Angelo," Sherlock stated, dodging the question. Why he didn't just tell the man no she couldn't say, but didn't bring up the matter again.

"Is it safe to assume that you are the owner of this establishment?" This question she directed to Angelo who nodded in the affirmative.

"That's right. Nice little place if I do say so myself." Saying this, he slapped a couple of menus down on the table and stated, "I'll be back with some water," and ran off.

"Interesting man," she commented, looking over at Sherlock who was listlessly flipping through his menu. "You're bored again, aren't you?"

At this he looked up at her, squinting his eyes as though he were looking into the sun. "Why do you think so?"

"Well, for starters, on the night we first met I noticed that you crave mental stimulation almost to the point of totally neglecting your physical needs. To follow up, you were flipping through the pages of your menu quickly and carelessly, suggesting that you are taking no interest in the food and would much rather be doing something that requires you to work out a complex mystery. Am I wrong?"

He seemed dazed for a bit, as though what she had just related was a miraculous discovery. Eventually though, he came back down to earth.

"No, you are perfectly right. You catch on quite quickly don't you?"

"If you're referring to my observation, it was nothing extraordinary. Anybody who walked by could have seen you were bored."

"Yes, but you seem to understand my need for mental stimulation, and we only met yesterday. Could it be that you crave it too?"

Was she having lunch or a therapy session with a psychologist? Nevertheless, she answered his question.

"Yes, I do seek mental stimulation, though admittedly not as recklessly as you do. I don't neglect taking care of myself either. Besides, my mental stimulation comes from researching my own little obsessions, watching mystery movies, studying chemistry, reading, and solving a puzzle here and there. Not really much to brag about."

"Your hobbies are ordinary enough," he admitted, causing her to smile and roll her eyes. "However, you are distinctly different."

"How so?" she asked.

Their menus had been completely forgotten as he began his answer.

"You are quite old fashioned, if your Beatles purse accounts for your tastes. Also, your outfit, complete with military blazer and black lace cravat suggests an unusual taste and personality. Not many people wear things like that in public anymore, but the fact that you do suggests that you don't care what other people think of you. You have a strong independent nature, yet you are polite. You are always truthful and extremely opinionated, as gathered from our conversation last night, not to mention your quick-wittedness and sharp mind. I must admit, Miss Arico, I find you fascinating. You're like a mystery in and of yourself."

"And if you solve that mystery would you get bored of it?" she asked, sipping the water which had miraculously appeared before them as she awaited his answer.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Who can say? John's not exactly a mystery to me, but I find his company pleasant. He is one of the few people I can call a friend. He's trustworthy, reliable, honest, and can be a bit blunt if provoked. I like John as a person, so, with or without the mystery, who's to say I wouldn't like you?"

She had to admit, she was surprised at his answer. He didn't seem the type to warm up to anybody quickly (or at all, or that matter), but here she was, having a late lunch with him and listening to him say things that she highly doubted he'd said to anybody else. In a way, she felt special. Like she had cracked the cold mask of this detective of stone. But she didn't want to think too highly of herself. There was much more to Sherlock Holmes than met the eye, and she highly doubted that she had gained his full confidence in less than forty-eight hours.

Before they could say anything more however, Angelo was over to take their orders. She asked for the shrimp pasta and a Coca Cola, while Sherlock ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee. After telling them that everything was on the house, Angelo went away to the kitchen to see that their food was prepared.

"Not much of a heavy eater are you?" Rhianna observed, sipping at her water.

"Food is just transport," he remarked bluntly. "Though John is always concerned with my diet."

"As well he should be. Being alive does help in the solving of cases."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. The way she put it made sense. Not that it would change his eating habits of course.

"You are a very sarcastic person," he mused, looking at her over the rim of his glass.

"Then that's something else we have in common."

"John has told me sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," he shared.

"John is just jealous of your natural talent for it," she joked, laughing. This caused him to smile.

As the time passed, their late lunch was brought to them and they ate over some fun conversation. He didn't know why, but he was enjoying this. She was fun to talk to, and when he went silent she didn't try to provoke him to speak. It was as if she understood him. Her company was pleasant. He'd even go so far as to say . . . enjoyable. He had seldom found women to be an attraction, but this one had piqued his curiosity. As they drove back to Baker Street in a cab, something in his gut told him that this wouldn't be his last adventure with Miss Rhianna Arico.

* * *

Sorry for the late update! School's up again and I have quite the workload. Anyway, the first short mystery has been solved! Granted it wasn't that complicated, but I wanted to start out with something simple to allow Rhianna to get her feet wet. I LOVED writing the dialogue between Rhianna and John. It was just an out pour of funny! And finally, more bonding between Sherlock and Miss Arico. I'm trying to make her smart, but not as smart as Sherlock (since that's nigh impossible). So far I think they're getting along well together. Thanks for all your views, favorites, follows, reviews, and support in general! It really encourages me to write!


	5. Chapter 5

Hello all! Sorry for the late update. School really does suck. Anyway, Here is chapter five. It's a bit shorter than the others, but I think it's cute. Thank you for reading!

* * *

_**Chapter Five**_

When she turned on her TV the next morning, it was all over the news.

'Respectable Korean businessman, Mr. Sung-ki Lane, was arrested for the first degree murder of his neighbor, a Mr. Conner Williams, in his flat the night before last. Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard was in charge of the case and made the arrest promptly yesterday afternoon.'

No mention of Sherlock and the help he provided. Not even an utterance of his name. The man got no credit for the mystery he single-handedly solved, and it was pissing her off.

Rhianna sat on the edge of her bed, arms crossed in frustration. When she had gotten home the night before, the TV had already been mounted, and a note lay on her desk.

'Just thought I'd put it up anyway,' it had read. 'You can thank me the next time we meet.'

Sean's signature was on the bottom, and it made her smile every time she passed her eye over it. The contentedness she had went to bed with the night before however, had vanished when she turned to the news that morning.

Inspector Lestrade does it again! Well, the only thing Inspector Lestrade did to benefit the case was just happen to be there conveniently with the handcuffs! He had taken immense pleasure in slapping the irons on our murderer's wrists, though it was not he who had been responsible for their use.

At this moment she wondered how Sherlock felt about the whole thing. Was he angry? Upset? Did he care at all? With him it was hard to tell. She knew that if _she_ had been screwed over, then Scotland Yard would have been receiving a less than congenial visitor this morning. But since she hadn't heard anybody storm out of the building, then she assumed nothing of note had taken place upon hearing the news.

She had just changed the channel to rid her ears of the grating lies when she jumped at the sound of her door being flung open, which was odd since she was sure she had locked it last night. Assuming that only an idiot would break into a townhouse in the middle of the day, she had a pretty good idea of who would be strolling into her one room apartment in less than thirty seconds. Just enough time for her to snatch the robe that was lying precariously on the bed and cover herself before he entered and saw her in only her pajamas.

Right as she tied the belt fast, the man of the moment sauntered in with a nonchalant fashion and muttered, "Good morning."

Rhianna looked at him with confusion, waiting for him to explain his uninvited appearance in her room, but he did not elaborate. Sighing, she asked him directly, "What are you doing here? I'm not exactly appropriately dressed at the moment and . . . wait . . . did you pick my lock? You picked my lock didn't you?!"

Sherlock Holmes stood there for a moment, expression not changing, before he answered, "Yes. I did. Do you have any crisps?" He turned to face her pathetic excuse for a kitchen.

"No, I do not. I have the bare necessities. Now get out of this flat."

"Why?" he asked innocently, looking as though he honestly didn't know what it was that had offended her.

"People don't break into other people's flats," she explained, knowing that he probably wouldn't care but telling him anyway. "If you want to come into my flat, you knock at the door, you don't use that bobby pin you have hiding in your pocket. For all you knew I could have been naked."

"I saw no logical reason for you to be," he stated plainly.

"Who knows? Maybe I have a fetish for not wearing clothes."

His eyebrow raised at this. Would he have refrained from forcing his way into her living quarters had she been naked? Of course he would, he told himself. Why wouldn't he?

"Get out," she commanded a little more forcefully this time, "or so help me, Sherlock Holmes, I'll set so many booby traps in this apartment that you'll rue your innocent break-in."

He had to try excruciatingly hard to hide a smile. "I could disarm all of them," he said confidently.

"Only one way to find out," she said, eyeing him.

Without any conscious decision on his part, he started backing up down the hallway until he was once again outside her door, never once breaking eye contact.

"Now, if you want in, knock. If you don't knock, you don't get in. Choose your course of action wisely." After which she shut the door in his face.

He stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. This hadn't exactly happened before. Well, alright, he _had_ been ejected from certain establishments in the past, but not exactly under the same circumstances. If he knocked, she would win the argument. If he didn't knock, then she would also win the argument. Damn. The woman had him cornered. He shouldn't have let her back him out of the room. Now he had two choices, both of which didn't benefit him in any way.

Gritting his teeth and shoving down his pride, he knocked on the door. Two seconds later it was opened by the same woman who had thrown him out. She looked up sweetly at him, acting as though the past five minutes had not happened at all. Those brown eyes of hers held no trace of resentment toward him. They were quite lovely, actually: deep, shining, and intelligent. Wait. What was he thinking? This was nonsense, utter nonsense! Really, Sherlock, get a hold of yourself!

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she chimed. "May I help you?"

"I wish to enter the sanctum," he replied dryly, causing her to grin.

"By all means." She stood back and held the door open for him. "And what, may I ask, brings you here so early in the morning?" She knew the formal manner was irritating him, and it was so deliciously fun!

"I was just coming to check on you, to see if you were shaken up by the events yesterday."

She highly doubted that was the reason. Yesterday she had been fine, when they had lunch after the arrest she had been fine, until watching the news this morning, she had been perfect. Oh yeah, the news. Should she mention that to him? He didn't seem too disturbed. Actually, he was acting quite calmly, looking over the fact that he had forced his way into her room.

"Actually, Sherlock," she began, shutting the door behind her, "I was a bit pissed by the news this morning."

His brow furrowed. "What of it?"

"Did you watch the report on Mr. Lane's arrest?"

"No," he admitted, looking disinterested.

"They didn't mention you at all. Not even once. Lestrade collected all the glory."

"So?"

"So? You mean you don't care?"

He shrugged. "Why should I? That's how it works. I have the fun of solving the cases, and Lestrade gets the credit. It's a system that's set itself over time."

"And it doesn't disturb you? Don't you want recognition for your work?"

"To me the work itself is the reward. If building Lestrade's reputation provides me with distractions, then that's what I'll do. He needs all the help he can get, anyhow."

Rhianna didn't know what to think. She was pissed off on Sherlock's behalf, yet he didn't seem to mind at all. For such an arrogant man, one would think that he would _need_ praise for his success, but that didn't seem to be the case.

"Well," she tried, "I guess it's good that it doesn't bother you."

"If it did I'd be flustered all the time," he stated sardonically, turning to walk into her room. "Quite a bit smaller than ours," he observed, looking around.

"It's good enough for now." Her arms were crossed and a bemused smile was playing on her face as she watched Sherlock investigate her furnishings. He was doing it quite quickly, glancing at an object then turning his attention elsewhere, when he suddenly stopped.

She didn't know why he had, her desk wasn't exactly that interesting, until she recalled the note Sean had left there the day before. His next statement proved her deduction right.

"So he mounted it for you anyway?"

The question was in his usual voice, though to her ears it did seem a bit strained. She knew he didn't like the guy, but come on.

"Yes," she confirmed, stepping closer. "It was very nice of him. Would have taken me forever by myself." He said nothing. He didn't even move, which was a bit creepy. "Look, I know you hate this guy, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean I do. We're friends, we go to college together. You're going to have to get over it." My, he had become possessive in such a short time.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock's voice rang through the room.

"That was kind of him."

What? Did he just say that was _kind_ of him? There were no limits to the surprises of this man.

"Yes, it was very kind," Rhianna agreed. She didn't exactly know what else to say. Sherlock still hadn't moved, like he was trying to work out why Sean would have done something like this. Simple acts of kindness seemed to do that to him.

Finally, he turned back around to face her.

"Your classes start tomorrow don't they?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And you haven't had much time to familiarize yourself with the city yet, have you?"

"No."

"Right." He stopped for a moment, apparently thinking about his next move, then continued. "Be ready in fifteen minutes."

"For what?" she asked, though she was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

"For a tour of London," he remarked, expressionless. "Meet me at the door." And with that, he left her room, shutting her door behind him.

)*(

John looked up at his flatmate with stunned disbelief.

"You need how much cab money?"

Sherlock sighed. "If you don't want to lend it to me that's fine. I'll find some other way to get it."

Afraid that some other way meant slyly pickpocketing someone unawares, John relented. "Fine, you can have the money. I just didn't know you liked riding cabs for fun."

"It's not just for me," Sherlock mumbled, pocketing his loan which he knew John would make him pay back later.

"Then who – " but before John could ask the question, the answer struck him. "It's for Rhianna, isn't it?" he asked, smiling.

His friend's face turned an embarrassing shade of red. "I don't know why that's so amusing," he said almost self-consciously.

John set the newspaper he was reading down. "I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock. I think it's good for you to actually attempt socializing." The detective said nothing. "She's a nice girl," the doctor continued.

Sherlock nodded. "I know that."

Seeing that his friend was seemingly uncomfortable with the topic, John dropped it. "Well, have fun," he said, picking the newspaper back up.

Sherlock made for the door, but halted before exiting.

"What is it?" John asked, peering over at him from above the pages of _TheTimes_.

He hesitated for a second, then, without making eye contact, asked, "Do you know a good place for ice cream?"

John could have swore he heard the shrill screams of the people outside as they realized the apocalypse had just begun, but, alas, it was only his imagination.

The question sounded casual in and of itself, but it was Sherlock bloody Holmes who was doing the asking. He had assumed, naturally, that the Sun would go black and aliens would be discovered in little villages on Mars before Sherlock would ask John where to take a girl out to eat, but that was not the case. There the man was, standing by the door awaiting his answer.

"Er," John began, "try the one a couple streets over. Sarah used to like that one."

Nodding, Sherlock marched out of the door and closed it with a bang.

John tried to go back to reading the news, but it was a pathetic attempt. Tossing it aside, he staring blankly into the space in front of him as he turned this new conundrum around in his mind.

Sherlock and Rhianna? He hardly thought that either of them had acknowledged anything yet. At least not to each other, but it was obvious something was there. Yesterday when he had come home, he had thought Sherlock would be lying on the couch in his room, mindlessly plucking away at the violin, or trying to blow up the kitchen. That was not to be. When he had entered their rooms with the load of groceries, Sherlock was taking off his jacket and hanging it up as though he had just got back. When John had asked him what had kept him out, Sherlock had replied, "Lunch," and disappeared into his room.

For the rest of the night he had played his instrument, switching between lively tunes to bitter sweet melodies. John knew precisely why. Sherlock was not used to listening to his emotions, and frankly, he didn't much like to admit that he had any, but that was changing. He seemed different when he was around Rhianna. Not like a completely different person, but not so forced. He didn't have to try to be someone else, and yet he seemed to have this overwhelming need to impress her.

Taking this all into account, John could only come to one conclusion. The question was, how long would it take the two of them to do the same?

* * *

And there you have it! John seems to be the only person who knows what's going on, or at least the only person to acknowledge it. I thought Sherlock was a bit adorable in this chapter. His "secret" crush is really messing with him, though I think he's coping well so far. Rhianna may very well have to construct some booby traps just in case Sherlock tries breaking in again, but here's hoping he's learned his lesson! I'm really going to have to introduce some more characters. We still haven't met Molly or Mycroft. We'll see about that in the next chapter. Until then!


	6. Chapter 6

I'm so sorry for taking this long to post! You may all take this time to mentally smack me. Okay, time's over. Anyway, here's chapter six. Long coming, I admit, but we made it. I'll try to post more regularly in future, but writer's block isn't exactly a friend of mine. Thank you for being so patient and for all the love this story has been getting!

* * *

_**Chapter Six**_

Sherlock didn't exactly know where to go with this. Actually, he didn't know why he was doing it at all; it was like it just happened without his control. He was not a tour guide, nor was he an expert on women, yet he couldn't bring himself to end it. Rhianna listened attentively as he took her to Trafalgar Square and told her about the Lord Nelson statue. She marveled at the sight of Big Ben and beamed when they went past Buckingham Palace.

He hated to admit it, but he was enjoying himself. She was genuinely interested in what he had to say, and asked relevant questions about their topic of conversation. He was almost giddy at the success of this venture, but he wouldn't show it. Oh no, never that. She was fun to be with, he granted her, but if he even showed a hint of these thoughts . . . . Well, let's just say he didn't want to be saddled with a love-struck college girl.

Even so, he found himself taking her to the ice cream shop John recommended and paying for the bill (much to her protestations). God, he even laughed when she ordered chocolate with chocolate syrup and chocolate chips. Lord, what was wrong with him?

"You what?!" she asked, almost choking on her ice cream. They were seated at a window booth enjoying their treat while Sherlock told stories of his former cases.

"We needed to get inside and check it out," he explained, quickly devouring another spoonful of his vanilla dessert. For some unexplainable reason, he loved vanilla now.

"Yeah, but . . . Sherlock, it was a military base. It's a miracle you weren't imprisoned for that."

He shrugged. "It was a good thing Dr. Franklin lied for us, though he did turn out to be the criminal."

She gave a muffled laugh. "That's one way to thank him. And your brother found out, I'm assuming?"

Here Sherlock flashed a mischievous smile. "Yeah. A bit later than I expected, but he did."

She shook her head. "It's amazing you get away with all this. I would say you're lucky, but you don't believe in luck, do you?"

He shook his head. "Situations unfold as they will. No luck involved. Just because something turns out in one's favor doesn't mean they have some universal force on their side."

She smirked. "I see. Well, I'm glad your situations turn out in your favor. It's like you're in a TV series. Nothing happens to you; you're the main character."

He snorted. A strange sound, but she managed to stifle her surprised laughter. "I hardly think our cases are suited to be in a TV series. Most people wouldn't understand what's going on, unless John romanticizes them of course."

"Give John some credit. From what I can tell, he's the reason for your client boom."

He gave a disdainful huff, but knew she was right. Without John's blog, his name would be as obscure as Anderson's miniscule brain. Yes, he did play them out like adventure stories from a suspense novel, and yes, he did not always emphasize the details which, in Sherlock's mind, were the major turning points of the case, but he had made him a household name. He supposed that was something he should thank him for. One day.

While he was pondering this, Rhianna had been eating her ice cream in silence, waiting for him to come back to earth. She didn't want him to think her annoying, so whenever he went into these lapses she allowed him to come out at his own pace. Sherlock was a person who lived inside his mind. He treasured his intelligence, and she was not about to interrupt him when he was lost in the depths of his whirling thoughts.

Before she knew it, she was the one lost in thought, and it was Sherlock who was studying her.

She was a beautiful thing, he thought as he watched her absentmindedly eat her triple chocolate ice cream, and smart to boot. He couldn't help but stare at her, entranced. He wondered why he was acting in such a strange way; completely unlike himself. Over and over he tried to convince himself that it was just curiosity, however . . . .

Here was a woman who was intelligent, captivating, and in control of her life without having to be a bad girl like Irene Adler had been. She didn't need the figure of a model to be beautiful, and she didn't need to manipulate and distract to be clever. She was her own person, and if you didn't like it, then your loss. She was kind and polite, yet blunt and honest. She was sarcastic and cynical, yet loyal and deep. There were so many turns to her, and Sherlock felt himself getting lost in the maze.

Before he knew it, he realized it was not curiosity alone that drew him to her. It was another thing all together, and whatever it was scared the hell out of him.

Before he could conclude his thoughts, however, they locked eyes. As corny as it sounded (and probably looked if you had been a third party), they were both struck silent. A wordless understanding passed between them, one party internally running from it, and the other feeling completely vulnerable and out of her depth. Either way, the ice cream setting before them was forgotten as they awkwardly looked away in different directions.

While Sherlock was cursing himself for letting his guard down and allowing things to progress this far (and in just a matter of days at that!), Rhianna's mind was spinning with this foreign sentiment. Males had never been her area, and she could most certainly say that they never would be. Nonetheless, she liked him. Nothing more; it had only been three days for Pete's sake, and love doesn't form that quickly. It was disconcerting however, that after such a short period of time she should have these feelings for her neighbor who had made it quite clear that he did not need nor want a relationship.

Thankfully, the silence was broken by the text alert on Sherlock's phone. Jerking back to life, he dug his mobile out of his pocket and checked the message.

"I'm needed at Bart's morgue. I'm afraid we'll have to end today's tour of the capital."

"That's fine," Rhianna said, eating the last spoonful of ice cream. "I would say good luck, but I'll refrain."

Sherlock smiled. "How very noble of you." Having said this, he practically jumped out of his seat, heading for the door. Before leaving however, he remembered something, and came back to her table. Slapping some crinkled money down in front of her, he stated, "Cab fare," and turned back to the exit, this time walking out.

Rhianna smiled and shook her head. It was just like him to leave her so sudden like. She was impressed he even remembered to give her money for a cab. Pushing herself out of her seat, she pocketed the cash, dumped her empty ice cream cup in the trash, and also left the building.

Sherlock was long gone, of course, so she had a quiet ride to look forward to. Just as she was about to wave down a cab, her cellphone rang. Surprised, and wondering who the devil could possibly be calling her, she fished it out of her purse, checking the number. Blocked. That's odd. Figuring it was probably just a wrong number, she answered.

"Hello, this is Rhianna Arico. Who is this?"

"Good day, Miss Arico. Did you enjoy your ice cream?"

Her blood ran cold. Whipping her head around, she tried to look for someone who might be watching her, but nobody was paying her the least attention, and no one she could see was on their cellphone. Almost as in response to her thoughts, the man on the phone spoke once more.

"I'm afraid you won't find anybody that way, Miss Arico. Please, do compose yourself."

"Who the hell is this?" she asked, freaking out. God, did she have a stalker already?

The man on the other end chuckled lightly. "You do have quite the vocabulary. Now, Miss Arico, I only wish to speak privately with you. Please step into the car."

She was about to ask which car he was referring to, when a polished, black one pulled up along the curb. Why couldn't it have been pink? Pink cars are so much less imposing. Just as the stranger danger alarm was signaling code red in her head, a man stepped out of the driver's side and opened the door for her.

She stared at him blankly for a minute, then the man on the phone began giving instructions.

"Get into the car, Miss Arico. Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Says the man who's attempting to abduct me," she muttered, scowling.

"Please, Miss Arico. I promise you won't be late for your first day at college tomorrow."

"What are you, a stalker?!" she practically shouted.

The man sighed. "Even the doctor wasn't this difficult," he grumbled.

The doctor? Did he mean John? How interesting! If this man was targeting people who associated with Sherlock, maybe it was better to see what all this was about. Besides, John made it back alive. This was undoubtedly the most stupid decision of her life, but she immediately walked forward and slipped into the car. Her abductor seemed pleased.

"Thank you, Miss Arico. I promise we won't keep you long." And with that, the call ended, the door was shut, and the car pulled away from the sidewalk and began speeding down the street.

The first thing she noticed was the tinted windows, which were quite disconcerting, given her situation. The second thing was the preoccupied woman sitting directly to her right. She was beautiful, just like a model, with dark hair and a slim figure. The clicking of her blackberry keys was the only sound that broke the still atmosphere of the back seat, that is, until Rhianna got impatient.

"Any idea where I'm going?" she asked irritably, spying a glance at her companion.

"Yes," the woman replied simply, not bothering to make eye contact.

"Well, how very nice for you," Rhianna returned, rolling her eyes. "I assume it was your boss that called me. Sounded quite posh. Nonthreatening, I suppose you could say."

The woman continued to ignore her.

Rhianna, who would usually avoid awkward, one-sided conversations like the plague, didn't care enough to quit. She was, put frankly, pissed. Therefore she would be talking for the duration of the ride as a way to vent her frustration.

"I would say you were criminals, but you don't strike me as such," she continued, looking blankly at the space in front of her. "I don't know how you knew what I was doing, as I didn't see anybody, but . . . ." she started to trail off as a realization came to her. The ice cream shop had had a security camera right above the door. There was no other way they could have seen her.

Finally, she turned her head to look straight at the woman next to her. "You used the security camera, didn't you?" she stated.

The woman looked up momentarily, then went back to her texting. "Yes," she stated plainly.

Okay then, different strategy.

So they weren't criminals, yet they had the use of the shop's camera. They were also able to obtain her cellphone number (which was quite the feat, since she was very private), and the man from earlier seemed to have minions, if the driver and the woman accounted for anything. Also, going by the car's tinted windows and his assurance that nothing would happen to her, there was only one option left.

"You lot work for the government, don't you?"

Finally the woman beside her stopped what she was doing and gave Rhianna her full attention. She said nothing, affirming her deduction. Huh, she was starting to think she was spending maybe _too_ much time with Sherlock. They sat looking at each other for a while until the vehicle came to an abrupt stop, and she was ushered out.

The place they had traveled to looked to be some form of abandoned warehouse, multiple stories high and made almost entirely out of rusted metal. Whoever wanted to talk to her did not want to be seen. By anyone.

Tentatively, she made her way forward into the dimly lit room, noting that she was not being followed by either of the two persons in the car. The boss man must be here. Wonderful.

As if in response to her thought, a familiar, posh voice floated out of the shadows and assailed her ears.

"Why, hello, Miss Arico. I do hope you had a pleasant trip."

"Short but silent. Almost painfully so. Now, surely it wouldn't be too troublesome to ask what it is you want of me?"

He chuckled. "You get right to the point, don't you, Miss? Yes, of course I will tell you why you are here."

"Finally," she sputtered.

"Would you like to take a seat?"

"No thank you," she returned. If she eventually had to run from something, she would much rather be on her feet.

"Very well. Now, to business. It has come to my attention that three days ago you moved into 221C Baker Street after moving to this country from America. Since then you have solved a crime with your neighbor, Sherlock Holmes, gone out to dinner with him and, subsequently, spent the entire day today taking in the sites of London and eating triple chocolate ice cream." He paused, looking up at her.

Rhianna shrugged. "What of it?"

A grim smile was straining on his features as he replied. "I would like to know what you want from Sherlock Holmes."

"What I want from him?" she asked, completely dumbstruck.

"Yes. Why are you all of a sudden constantly around him. What is it that you are trying to achieve?"

"I'm not trying to achieve anything. We get along and enjoy each others company. What's so illegal about that?"

The man's smile faded entirely, leaving behind two, piercing eyes that reminded her startlingly of Sherlock's. Almost exactly like Sherlock's actually.

"Sherlock has had a poor history with woman. I don't want him getting close to another that would inevitably hurt him."

"Hurt him? I don't have any intention of hurting him. If Sherlock doesn't want me around, all he has to do is say something." There was a silence. "Look, sir. I think you're overreacting. People become friends everyday. It happens. Sherlock is fully capable of taking care of himself, and I don't have any dark ulterior motives."

"That's exactly what I am afraid of." His eyes were unwavering, the stiffness of his stance signifying his seriousness. "Both of you will be hurt in the end. Sherlock is not the type of man you want to try to build such a fragile relationship with. I know people, Miss Arico, and a friendship between a man and a woman does not stay just a friendship for long."

Now he had crossed the line. First that creepy phone call, then the abduction and pesky drive, now he dares to speak to her like this and tell her who she is allowed to associate with? Ha! For some reason, she didn't much like his method.

"I will befriend who I wish to befriend, and Sherlock can do with that friendship whatever he wants. My only question is, sir, how do you tie into all of this, and why do you care?"

He let out a long, drawn out sigh purposefully to test Rhianna's patience and then answered her.

"I worry about him," he replied, "constantly. I am, what you could call, an old associate of Sherlock Holmes'."

"A friend?"

"An enemy, or so he would call me."

"He would call many people an enemy," she pointed out, crossing her arms. "What makes you different?"

He laughed. "My relation to him, I suppose. He's always been so bitter."

"Relation? You mean you're his – "

"He's my brother," a voice from behind cut in. A voice she had gotten quite used to over the last three days. The eyes of both parties widened and looked in the direction of the intruder. Sure enough, there he was, trench coat and all.

"I wonder when you'll get tired of kidnapping everybody I talk to, Mycroft?" Sherlock sneered as he walked over to his brother and neighbor.

"Whenever the need disappears," the man, whose name was apparently Mycroft, returned.

"I graduated primary school ages ago, brother. I don't need you keeping after me like an extension of our mother."

"If you'd act your age I wouldn't have to."

"I can do what I like now. That is one of the advantages of being an adult."

"I don't want you to get yourself killed."

"I'm a consulting detective. Danger is part of the job."

"I know that only too well, believe me."

"The thing is, I don't know how threatening and bribing the people around me will help your cause."

They were glaring at each other now. To Rhianna, it looked almost like a competition to see who could kill the other by stare first, and as nothing was happening, she broke the silence.

"As lovely as this is, I need to get going. My first day of college is tomorrow and I don't fancy spending the remainder of this one in an abandoned warehouse."

Thankfully, that broke up the staring contest and got Sherlock's attention.

"I have a cab waiting outside," he said, turning to address her. "If you'll just come with me." Taking her by the arm, he started walking away, making sure to shout a, "Good day, brother dear," before departing from the building.

Rhianna made no protestations as he pulled her outside and shoved her into his waiting cab. He joined her not seconds later, shouting at the cabbie to take them back home. The ride started in silence, but did not stay that way. Answers were to be got.

"Sherlock," Rhianna started, "how did you – "

"The text was a fake," he butt in, not making eye contact. Obviously, he was not in a good mood.

"Constructed by your brother, I'm assuming."

"Yes. He does have a habit of manipulating people's movements," he hissed in between clenched teeth.

"So I gathered," she mumbled, looking up at him with concern. She paused before continuing. "Your brother was warding me off, Sherlock. He says he doesn't want me to hurt you." She stopped to await his reply, but he said nothing. "He seemed very sincere," she added, before drifting off into silence. Apparently this was a topic he did not want to pursue. She was just about to accept that she was not going to get an explanation when Sherlock spoke up.

"Adler."

"What?"

"Her name was Irene Adler. I became entangle with her through a case. I was somewhat . . . fascinated with her. She was clever, very clever, but she wasn't the most reputable of women. I'm afraid my brother finds he has to shield me from such situations. Nevertheless, he shouldn't have droned on about this to you. It doesn't concern you."

His monologue was brief and blunt, and she did not think it tactful to push him to say more.

The rest of the ride was endured in silence. When finally they got back to Baker Street, they bade a solemn goodnight to one another and went to bed. Tomorrow was her first day of college after all, and she could not afford to be drowsy in class.

* * *

Hope you liked it! I'm going to try to be more regular about my posting, but stuff happens. Anyway, thank you for being patient! Well, Rhianna has now met Holmes the elder and tomorrow college begins! God only knows what will happen next. However, they both seem to be acknowledging their feelings, though voicing them is another thing all together. We'll see how long it takes them to confess. Until then!


End file.
